


Iridescent

by Thesherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Freeform as hell, Gen, Present time, Teenlock, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-10 14:03:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15950858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Thesherlockholmes
Summary: "All you see is the brains. You never really looked further." At that I turned on my heel and left John standing behind me, not having uttered a single syllable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ah a new story! New ideas to explore! Hopefully you, dear readers, shall find some interest in the story to follow. At the beginning of each chapter I will include a piece of music mist likely classical, most likely violin, to go along with the writing. As always I welcome (and live off of) feedback, so do share thoughts and ideas. And now:

__Der Erlkonig, _solo violin_ -  __Schubert/Ernst

 

 _The door shut behind me. The coolness of the stark bedroom surrounded, suffocated. Familiar._  
_"Sherlock?" His voice pleaded through the door. "Please."_  
_Ignoring his breathing on the other side of the door, I wrapped myself in the silk of my dressing gown, curled on the bed, soon asleep._

* * *

 

Journal of an Aspiring ~~Genius~~ ~~~~Sociopath

 

Scrawled in the empty black leather covered journal now forever marred by black ink was the phrase that began it all. Sitting in the messy dorm room, alone as always, determination, anger, and other things I couldn't name making my hands tremble. Rewind.

-

Two weeks ago carrying luggage up the four flights of stairs. Hearing the chatter around me, aware of my separation from it. Hearing it as if I was underwater. Continuing up the stairs, finding I had not been assigned a roommate. Closing the door and everyone out with the turn of the lock. Collapsing on the bed a sudden useless muddle of sadness, superiority, and dizzying aloneness in my head. Nothing different this year.

-

How does one usually address the first writings in a journal? Dear Journal? How cliché. Why an address? It's pointless.  ~~Everything is.~~

~~-~~

There's a small kitchen on my floor. It's useful for late night tea runs when I'm unable to sleep. I enjoy the quiet of nights. So much that I don't want to miss it doing something so seemingly time wasting as sleeping. Tonight is one such night. I've made myself the usual black tea with two sugars. If I have enough of these my hands will begin to shake and my brain will run faster. Wonderful for school work, no so much for the legibility of the final product. There are sacrifices in all things. I've gotten extra mathematics work for practice. I'll finish it all tonight and get more in the morning. The more practice the better. Perhaps I'll match Mycroft's reputation. Highly doubt it though, the cafeteria has stopped serving cake.

-

Classes passed as they have all years previous. I sit in the back corner, right near the window. I stare out at a tree or the grass or the other people passing a ways away not paying full attention to the professor because why bother? I'll read the material later and learn it then. So much more efficient. The girl in front of me recently had a terrible hair cut- hair up in a ponytail when it's usually down- the boy on the right side of me plans on cheating on tests through the year- he'll get caught. The professor is cheating on his wife who knows and will in two months time file for divorce. Terribly ordinary. Boring. There's pen ink under my nails. I might scrub them later if I remember. Why do they put clocks that tick so unnervingly loudly in here? Must they torture us reminding us second by second? The lectures words are floating through the air. Thickly into my ears, heavily into my mind. Clogging up the synapses with words words words facts facts facts comments comments comments. "Mycroft is at Cambridge Sherlock." Acidic words from vile tongue. Unspoken disdain, dislike, disappointment. Under the covers, door closed. Mycroft's piano playing drifting up from the living room. Panic rising in my chest. Not a word spoken over summer holiday. Chairs scraped the floor, the first class of the year was over.

-

Forgetting lunch I went back to my room. I started in on the work from the first class, barely writing anything in the end. The silence was strangely distracting, amplifying the noise in my head.

-

Oh the noise. Always the same things, the same memories over and over. It quiets ever so slightly when I focus on something. I realized this only a few years ago and began to focus on the stimuli around me. In that time I've noticed that I notice more. Except that method has become routine, I know there's more I could see but there's a block of some sort. It no longer quiets the noise- in fact it has contributed to it now. 

-

More classes, more people, the same repeating noise. I found a route onto the roof- through the east wing, upper corridor, down to the last door (pick the lock), up the stairwell behind it and onto the roof. It seems no one else can pick a lock, as the roof is always deserted. I've brought my violin up here, hearing the notes vanish into the open air along with the thoughts, the emotions put into the bow, into the strings. They come fast today my fingers flying over the finger board, the bow scraping unpleasantly as I bring it down too hard. It ends in a whirlwind, flying upwards into a hurricane, threatening to carry me away. I put the bow down mid-note. "Mycroft plays so pleasantly." In the drawing room, father drinking brandy. The air is still around me suddenly stifling. I try Bach. It doesn't come out, my finger clumsily placed over the finger board the bow out of sync with the melody. My head alarmingly blank. The piece should be played calmly, singularly, inexplicably different. The violin goes back into the velvet lined case. The loosened bow follows. The zipper zips, the lock clicking into place. Black case against grey concrete, black dress shoes against grey concrete.

-

Grey pavement as I walk through the small town surrounding the school. It's rather aimless, there's nothing I intend to buy, no one I intend to meet. Going forward towards nothing. I laugh, an exhaled puff of one. Humorless. I continue walking. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?"

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan."

 _You're confused_ , I smirked. _Show him what he wants to see._

 

* * *

 

I looked at my watch- 2:30. Press conference had started fifteen minutes ago. Accounting for Lestrade's tendency to ramble and the unnecessary questions from reporters there should be an opportunity to show him up sometime, anytime really. I made a new text to send to the mobiles of the reporters- one from each major news perveyor. 

Wrong.

Then to Lestrade: _You know where to find me._

The door to the laboratory opened. Mike.

"Oh Sherlock! Haven't seen you around these parts in a few months. Where'd you disappear to?"

I tucked the phone back into my pocket and returned my focus to the microscope, sparing only a brief glance towards him. _Depending on the time either a back alley, that wreck of (barely) a flat, and rehab._

"Been working."

He chuckled. "Right Holmes. Right. Bit different from the last time I saw you." 

"Yes, well." Avoiding looking at him was getting annoying now so I looked up from the microscope. "I need a flat mate, quite an unrealistic venture though. Who would want to be my flat mate?"

"Sorry, don't know anyone looking for one." 

"Hmm." _Why was he still here?_ "Did you need something?"

He walked over to the bench opposite, picked up the coat lying on it. "Looking for this." _Unnecessary words Mike._ "Good seeing you and I'll ask around. Have a good afternoon." 

The phone pinged, distracting me from replying. 

_Sod off Holmes._

He smirked, _didn't want to be stood up at your own press conference? Stop being so oblivious then._

I returned to the sample under the microscope. I had a case to solve, the first one in ages. 

* * *

  _Of course! The brother did it if he had the ladder! Must be out of practice, such an obvious conclusion._

I handed the phone back to the man- John, was that his name? Throwing out a few deductions just for the hell of it before leaving the room with a wink and flitting 'Afternoon.' As I strode down the hall towards the elevators I ran into Molly, of course. Slight annoyance as she smiled shyly at me and muttering about something inconsequential in an attempt at conversation. I hummed, fingers tapping out a concerto on my thigh, as the elevator descended to the mortuary. Finally, _finally,_ the doors opened and out I came with a whoosh, a pip from Molly as she followed behind. 

"Need the riding crop from the mortuary Molly."

"Oh, right. Here..." she opened the door with her pass, letting me in. A quick glance and there it was in the corner. Grabbing it and off again, I had a very busy afternoon ahead.

"Bye." Another mutter from Molly, but I had already rounded the corner. 

 

* * *

 

I went immediately to Baker Street and was now sitting in Mrs. Hudson kitchen drinking tea and being offered a multitude of various biscuits. 

"Mrs. Hudson! I'll be taking the flat for sure now."

"I knew you would. Why I'd taken the ad out the minute you called."

"I'll move my possessions in this afternoon and you need a down payment, yes?" 

"That's right." 

I took a sip of tea, nodding at her response. She had gotten up and was looking for something in the refrigerator.

"You'll need strength for the moving, I'll make you some lunch."

"I'm really not-"

"Nonsense young man. You will sit and tell me what you've gotten yourself up to the last few years."

 _Breathe in, breathe out. Don't scare her Sherlock. Tell her the best points, the good, the clean._  

I fiddled with the shirt cuff, unbuttoning it and buttoning it again.

"Well, I've been working with the police. Idiots all of them, so I solve the cases they are absolutely lost on." 

"Didn't I tell you you could do something with that brain of yours? More tea?" She placed a plate in front of me and picked up the mug not bothering for an answer. I picked at the sandwich as she refilled the mug. "There, dear. Now," she sat down in the chair across from me, picked up her own mug and leaned over the table, "What have you _really_ been doing?"

I rolled my eyes, "Got your husband a murder charge-"

"And a drug charge!"

I tilted my head in acknowledgement, "by talking my way around his acquaintances." 

"While that is true, I recall that _I_ was the one who made it possible for you to talk to them."

"By rather devious means."

"It was quite necessary." 

I smirked, "The point being, that you know that I will not tell you anymore than I have. Because you already know." 

Her face fell then, gone was her happiness at recounting the lighter years, replaced by what had actually happened then. "Oh, _dear._ "

"I do hope this doesn't jeopardise the flat. I have a potential flat mate coming to look at it and, well."

"Not at all dear." She patted my hand. "Never." 

All I could do was smile around the lump in my throat. 


End file.
